


At 12 Kilometers

by BakerTumblings



Series: Dr. Watson's Flatmate [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airplanes, Airports, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flight Attendants, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Medical, Medical Professionals, Other than the medical crisis this is a bit silly, Traveling with Sherlock is like traveling with Children, sepsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson, MD, Intensivist, has been scheduled to speak at a conference in Switzerland, and Sherlock decides to accompany him.  It's only a couple quick plane rides away, and Sherlock is a low-maintenance traveling companion, right?   What could <i>possibly</i> go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	At 12 Kilometers

The bottle of lube flew through his line of vision and landed in the open suitcase in front of him.

"Seriously, Sherlock, we do not have time for that."

A soft wrist restraint landed next, the webbed white straps trailing out over the edges, as if beckoning.

"We cannot miss the flight.  There's a connection in Geneva.  And not a lot of margin..."  A solid form slammed into his side, sending them both sprawling onto the bed.  " _God_ , knock it the hell off.  Pack all of that, great idea, but _shit_..."  A frantic flatmate pawed at his waist, seeking belt, zipper, flies, hardness.  The moist heat of his mouth was enough to silence John's protestations, and there was no holding back - no time, no reason - and a warning "oh Jesus, I'm going to ..."  The resultant swallowing, smiling, and wiping of Sherlock's smug-faced chin could do nothing less than make John laugh.  "God, you're going to kill me one of these days."

A warm kiss, tug of straightened clothing between them both, had Sherlock grinning.  "You fuss entirely too much.  We had plenty of time."

"No time for you, though, unfortunately."  John snapped the suitcase closed after tucking the lube inside his shaving kit and the tail of the restraint underneath his socks.

Sherlock's eyes lit up and John felt fear grip his guts.  "Airplane lavatory, as soon as the fasten seatbelt sign goes off."

" _Absolutely not_."

"At the hotel then, before the conference."

Smiling, John nodded and then spoke, "We should have plenty of time.  Sounds like a good plan.  But not at 12 kilometers."

++

John sighed as he contemplated his notes again, wishing he'd never agreed to speak at the medical conference.  Not that he minded public speaking, not even a little, but traveling was not something he especially enjoyed unless they had all the time in the world, where the connections didn't matter, where time wasn't crucial. The first flight from London to Geneva had been delayed, so their connecting flight to Zurich had already departed, and now he and Sherlock sat grounded in Geneva.  Puddle jumper flights, really, but here they sat.  There was vague blaming from British Airways on inclement weather - but Sherlock had already deduced it was more likely mechanical problems.  And as John sat across from Sherlock, he was reminded again as to why traveling with Sherlock was not necessarily the most pleasant activity, either.  The man was practically crawling out of his skin in restless aggravation and frustrated energy.  John could _hardly wait_ until they were side by side cramped in the small metal tube of an airplane.   _Why on earth_ , he wondered, _were they doing this, again_?

Shuddering, he nudged Sherlock's foot that was surprisingly unmoving long enough for him to reach it.  "You could go for a walk if you're having problems behaving."  John chose his word quite deliberately, and Sherlock's inner child bristled.  John watched him regress to the rebellious, obstinate behavior he reserved for when he wasn't getting his way.

Sherlock pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side as if considering a remarkably wonderful idea.  "Great idea.  I'll go outside and have a smoke," and he stood.

"Don't you dare."  John refused to be dragged into any confrontation or argument.  He turned his attention back to his tablet in front of him, pretending to review his slides for his presentation on the success of the Intensivist Program, where he served as director, a functional means to handling critically ill, hospitalized patients.

" _John_."

"I can't fix this.  Neither can you.  Neither will a cigarette."  John looked up finally from the words in front of him, saw Sherlock struggling.  A hint of compassion reared its head then.  Sitting around was bloody hard on that over-active brain, he knew, and it had been a long, trying trip so far.  John closed the tablet, stood.  "Come on, then, you.  Let's go find something interesting for you, and you can be brilliant and show off for me."  John was rewarded with a heartfelt and heart-stopping grin.

Side by side, they headed into the airport concourse, leaving the gate for a much needed break.  The crowds of people around the various counters, walk-ups, and food vendors in the main concourse allowed some rather interesting stories as they passed.  Of course, as Sherlock picked up on unusual details regarding some of them, John had no idea how much he was inventing, but it occupied his mind for a few minutes until John's mobile buzzed with the text alert relating the flight information.  They were to depart in 20 minutes, and the gate was now boarding.  Heaving a sigh of relief, John steered Sherlock back to the British Airways counter, glad that the stress of the trip was now behind them.  They would make it by conference start time, but barely.  Smooth sailing, finally, he thought to himself as he relaxed into the aisle seat, leaving Sherlock the window.  They'd long ago learned that Sherlock would be in his lap if the seating was reversed, which had led to all kinds of misbehaving the time they'd tried that.  It was amazing, John thought, that British Airways let them actually board the plane at all.

++

The flight was short, of course, and a few minutes after achieving cruising altitude, the pilot's announcement came regarding the fasten seat belt lights being turned off.  John had closed his eyes, but opened one long enough to look over at Sherlock, who was predictably smirking.  "No," he said gently, reaching a hand over to pat Sherlock's hand reassuringly.  John found himself relaxing finally, and grateful for peace and quiet as Sherlock amused himself with either his mobile or the view, John didn't particularly care.  Unfortunately, his near-slumber was disturbed soon after by a flight attendant touching his arm.  "Excuse me, are you Dr. John Watson?"

His eyes opened, and his first thought was that Sherlock had escaped somehow and had gotten into trouble.  Sherlock was still at his elbow, he realised as the attendant kept speaking.

"The pilot has requested your assistance with another passenger who has taken quite ill in first class.  Are you willing to come see him?"

John was already unbuckling his seatbelt as he agreed.  When Sherlock moved to follow, the attendant tried to halt him, but John interceded.  "We work together," he explained.  It was much easier than having Sherlock unattended while there were obviously higher priorities requiring their focus.  Reluctant agreement, then, and they proceeded to the front of the plane.  

Sherlock spoke as they went, "It's probably that man in the ugly brown suit, pale blue shirt.  I saw him in the terminal."

John was not surprised to have the flight attendant stop in the row where, of course, there was a very ill-appearing man, fifty-ish, wearing said brown suit and blue shirt.  The next seat had been judiciously emptied by the flight attendant, and John eased into it.  "I'm John Watson," he said in greeting, touching his hand, "I'm a doctor."  The man turned listless eyes toward him, skin pale, clammy, focused just barely on his surroundings.  To the attendant, he said, "First aid kit and an AED please."  Turning back, he reached for radial artery, finding pulse thready, tachycardic, 160's, regular, wrist cool.  "What is your name, sir?"

"Thomas."

"Health history?" John asked, cutting to the chase as a medical kit was placed at his side.  Sherlock opened it, found and handed John a BP cuff, stethoscope.

"I have to get home.  Why are we in the nave at church?  I left my car keys under the couch."  More sentences came, repetitive, nonsensical, as John checked his blood pressure.

"76/40," he spoke aloud.  "Can we check a blood sugar?" he asked the attendant, and was informed it was impossible.  The man began shivering violently in the seat, wrists cool, face pale, sweaty.  John touched the back of his hand to the man's shirt collar, inside the suit jacket.  The shaking was strong, but not seizure activity, and it made Thomas's teeth chatter as he continued to spew nonsense.  To the attendant, he said quietly, "The pilot needs to divert to the nearest airport.  Request an ambulance at the gate."

"Policy has to coordinate with physician on the ground before declaring an emergency landing."

John leveled an intense glare.  "Then get it.  This man is showing signs of full blown septic shock, and time is of the essence."  The flight attendance nodded, stepped forward to advise the cockpit of the developments and begin the process.

"Septic shock?" Sherlock asked quietly, watching the shaking abate, only to begin again, slightly less severely.  The skin color was turning grayer.

"Fever, rigors, decreased mentation, confusion, hypoperfusion."  John looked over.  "IV supplies?  And oxygen?"  The second attendant nodded that oxygen was fore in the cabin while Sherlock pulled out a bag of IV fluids.  "Start kit?  Tubing, too, thanks."  It took a few minutes, but the supplies were located.  John pulled on exam gloves, found scissors and slit both the suit jacket (while Sherlock muttered something about mercy killing of that hideous jacket) and shirt sleeve, exposing the arm.  "I'll need you to hold him while I stick?  Moving target with all the rigors."  Sherlock took a knee, sliding both arms up along underneath John's in order to hold from beneath the elbow and the hand, from out of the way.  John opened the packaging, primed the IV tubing

"He has fever?  He feels cool to me."

John set out supplies, scrubbed his antecub, and cannulated the vein with sluggish return of dark blood.  "Mind the sharp," he said, sliding the catheter forward while removing the needle.  Awkward positioning in a way John hadn't had to deal with since crazy military maneuvers, he slid tape over the hub of the needle, and connected the IV tubing.  "Fever's central, shunting blood to major organs.  He's at least 40 degrees."  John opened the IV fluids wide, gestured to Sherlock to hold it high.  Oxygen had been delivered to the row, and John eased the cannula under his nose and around his ears.

The man hadn't really flinched at the IV stick, but the shaking was still intermittently pronounced.  The flight attendant returned then with an update.  The plane would land in Bern.  It would take 25 minutes to descend safely but once they were down, they would be a priority landing.  The doctor on the ground wanted to know what the nature of the emergency was.

John shrugged.  "Without a history, hard to tell."  He turned his gloves inside out over the supplies, including the now retracted sharp, effectively cleaning up, and secured the IV tubing with additional tape.  

The man turned glazed eyes toward him, asked, "Why is there a cat here in the restaurant?"  The attendant handed him a disposable thermometer, which John tucked under the man's tongue.  Another BP reading found him still low, hard to hear, systolic about 70, John said quietly.

"Urinary tract infection, most likely," Sherlock offered.  When blank stares turned to him, he shrugged as if it was the most obvious finding in the room.  "He'd used the men's toilet at least three times when we were at the gate, and once more as we entered the plane."

John looked at the attendant with a grin, "I'm not betting against that.  Urosepsis, then, probably.  Oral temp's 39.5, but it's really higher, he's breathing too fast for it to be accurate."  The flight attendant pulled a piece of tape from the medical kit, rigged an IV hanger and hung the entire set-up from the overhead baggage compartment handle, which freed up Sherlock's long arm from the duty of IV pole.

The flight attendant returned from the cockpit with a headset.  "The med director on the ground wants to talk to you."

"Is here ok?" John asked, not wanting to leave the patient, just in case, and knowing confidentiality was not much of an issue in these situations.  When she nodded, he slid the set over his head, identifying himself and adjusting the mic.  His side of the conversation was brief, relating vital signs first, then assessment, what he'd done thus far.  Apparently he was asked what he wanted to meet them on the ground with, if possible.  "Ambulance.  Nearest hospital.  He needs cultures, more fluids, antibiotics, maybe vasopressors.  If he's still hypotensive, I'll try to start another line, run in additional fluids..."  There was a pause.  "Of course."  John took the headset off, handed it over.  

Sherlock was already looking for additional IV start kits as John checked another blood pressure, found it still perilously low.  His limbs were cool, mottled in color, his central color still gray, and his confusion seemed to be worsening as the rigors continued.  

Thomas suddenly opened his eyes, thrashing about with both arms as he stared wide-eyed in fear at something solely in the horrors of his mind, started to yell, "I'm gonna die, just let me die, don't touch me!"  John reached for the arm with the IV, hoping to salvage the site from dislodgement as the man became more agitated, leaning forward as if he hadn't a blessed clue where he was or what was going on.

The loudspeaker crackled, then, the pilot coming on to announce an unexpected change of plans due to a medical situation on board (for the few passengers who were unaware of that) and explained they would land in Bern, debark as needed, and resume their expected destination as soon as the airplane could be refueled.  Once he was done speaking, there was clearly the passenger reaction of dismay and upset.  John wondered how much of the annoyance would be directed at him for the "nearest airport" insistence, even as he looked up at Sherlock.  "Think we can get another line in the other arm?"  Thomas yelled out a non-sensical response, and John spoke to him quietly, trying to reassure him.

"I definitely think we should chop up the other sleeve of that hideous jacket to make sure it is irreparable.  The IV line is up to you."  A few of the other passengers awkwardly laughed at the inappropriate comment, and John completely avoided eye contact with everyone in the vicinity as he continued, "It's worse than those jumpers you used to wear."

John repeated the IV procedure on the other arm, with Sherlock's help, and soon a second IV bag was infusing.  Thomas clung to John a few times with a desperate, wild look about him.  John assured him that he'd feel better soon, and they would get him safely to a hospital.

Thomas must have heard the word hospital, began trying to sit up, stand up, and was generally uncooperative.  John had his hands full as he attempted to keep him safely in the seat and the IVs safely in his arms.  The plane descent was clearly evident now, and Sherlock was requested to return to his seat as they began preparations for landing.  John buckled in where he was, talking in quiet tones to Thomas, while the flight attendant advised John that the medics would come on the plane and remove the patient as soon as they'd taxied to the jetbridge.  John was welcome to accompany the patient to the hospital if he chose, but it was not necessary.  "I'll just give report to the ambulance crew, that's fine."

++

John checked his mobile for the 47th time as the flight crew readied for take off.   _Again_.  They were going to be pushing it to make the conference start, at this rate.

Earlier, upon landing, the pilot requested that all remain in their seats while the patient was removed, which was done without incident via a slim wheelchair.  John handed off report, what he knew and what had happened, to the EMT/Paramedic, and they whisked the man away.  Refueling and restocking the plane had been expeditiously done, and they were all anxious to be on their way.   _Again_.

John had fired off a text to the conference chair, simply that they were running behind, airport delay, and he would advise when he knew a more exact arrival time.  There had been a "fine" message in response, and both John and Sherlock were back in their original seats, awaiting take off.

"They could have at least bumped us up to first class.  There were two seats," Sherlock observed.  "It's irritating that they didn't."

"That wasn't the point.  It was the right thing to do.  Thanks for your help, by the way.  Combative patients are some of my favorites, you know."  And Sherlock did know that John didn't mind the aggressive or agitated patient unless it became a threat to the safety of the staff.  Many a time, John had responded to a request for help for an escalating violent situation.

"They should at least get us free drinks."

"Will you please stop?"  John couldn't help laughing, and the look of frustration on Sherlock's face wasn't helping.  "I would think you're frustrated for other reasons, if I didn't know better."

"Well of course _I am_ , and _you're not."_  He exhaled, looked out the window, as if resigned.  "I just think some appreciation would be in order."

"Relax, it's fine.  We'll have a great couple of days away."  John nudged his leg with the outside of his own, knee to knee, and it helped ease the stress some.  Sherlock seemed to take a deep breath, settle down, and get a grip on his behaviour.  Blowing out a big sigh of surrender, he sat back, turned his attention to the window, and within a few minutes, the plane was thundering down the runway.

John nodded off quickly, his mind exhausted, his body not far behind, and a few moments later, Sherlock stood, barely awakening John, to take a stroll.  "Just stretching my legs," he said quietly.

Shortly thereafter, the flight attendant was touching his arm again.  "Dr. Watson, I'm so sorry to disturb you."

"Yes, it's no problem."  He shook his mental fatigue off, realised Sherlock was still out of his seat.  "Something wrong?"

"Your companion, seems..." the attendant lowered her voice a bit, "... well, he may be ill.  He's in the lavatory at the rear of the plane.  It sounded like he was in some distress, and refused to talk to anyone except you.  He is requesting that you come at once."

It took every ounce of John's strong will to maintain a straight face as he sighed and stood up.

++

**Author's Note:**

> An emergency on an airplane is not a laughing matter, except when these two are up to their shenanigans before and after. 
> 
> The story is dedicated to victims of sepsis, specifically those who develop severe septic shock, as our traveler did in this story. Once a person gets to that serious stage, the mortality rate is between 40-60%. No worries, our passenger did fine.
> 
> Airplane cruising altitude is approximately 12 km. or 30,000 feet.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N 9/22/15: I just realized that the last line discusses John maintaining a "straight face". Huge apologies for that - I wish I could say that I'd done it on purpose!
> 
> Any random comment, feedback, or kudo - greatly appreciated as always. Thanks for reading this! XXOO


End file.
